I’m afraid I’m turning into a hobo.
Last week, Megan and I were walking back from the bars. (Needless to say, I was very drunk.) Despite my staggering and blurred vision, I noticed a cigarette lying on the sidewalk. It had obviously been stepped on because it was flat, but seemed fine other than that . I picked it up and put it in my pocket. Megan stared at me, disgusted.
“You’re not actually going to smoke that, are you?”
I grinned and nodded, then smoked the entire filthy thing down to the filter once we got back to the apartment.
This wouldn’t prove much of anything if not for what I did yesterday.
There’s a pizza place with outside seating on the corner of my block. I walked past it on my way to my car, and noticed a lone slice of pizza on top of a serving tray. The tables by the street were empty, and it looked like the pizza’s owner had paid and left. I stared down the slice, my brain churning furiously.
Do I steal the pizza? Am I really hungry enough to steal food from a restaurant table? Is this pathetic? How long have I been standing here thinking about this?
I snatched the slice and walked away briskly, hoping no one had seen me. And it was delicious.
It tasted like hobo victory.
Also, like pizza.